


To the Victors

by Caesia390



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22857028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caesia390/pseuds/Caesia390
Summary: Inspired by Amaneunsis's And Just Plain Wrong as well as Juxiang Tang's related piece, Damage Control. Warning: Depictions of GRAPHIC VIOLENCE and RAPE. Voldemort has triumphed and turned Hogwarts into his own personal torture factory. The Order has lost. Draco makes them pay for losing.
Kudos: 2





	To the Victors

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [Amanuensis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanuensis/pseuds/Amanuensis). Log in to view. 



“Draco hates Potter, hates him with almost unexplainable fervor - and this hatred, combined with willfulness that borders on psychosis, is lethal.” – Damage Control

…

Hogwarts was taken on a clear, cold November day. With every gust of wind, umber and orange drifted down from the trees to lay a scant carpet of leaves over the fallen.

Draco Malfoy, the son of active Death Eaters, reflected the sky in his pale and empty, ice-blue eyes.

His school had become his home, his fantasy reality.

XXX

I lumber into the room, and your face lights with hope so pure it’s like a blade through my gut.

How dare you hope? Here, still, after everything we’ve done to you… How _dare_ you have anything left for us to crush?

Of course I hurt you.

Choking, tearing, and your body exploding under my thrusts like some soft, rotten fruit and your frightened eyes. Your terrified eyes. Disbelieving, wretched little sounds and, yes, it’s _Hagrid_ doing this to you, Potter. Who else but Hagrid, who loved you, Hagrid, your friend?

Of course it’s me.

Your enemy.

Because we’re enemies, Potter. I hate you.

And you lost but you’re still _here_ and so I hate you even more.

Do you know how good you feel around me, stretched to bursting around this giant cock? Have you ever fucked anyone, Potter, to know what it feels like? No one here wants to see you fuck, just fucked, but in the dormitories… Does Weasley spread it for you? Do you comfort each other?

Father says it’s good that you have _friends_ ; friends make you weak.

Father says…

XXX

I never expected Him to win. I expected _Father_ to win, always. Father controls people, controls things. Father would have used the Ministry to get me anything I want. Anything he thought I should have.

He was a dream, a ghost, a boogie man conjured up to frighten Gryffindors.

Gryffindors win in public; Slytherins win in private. That’s the way it goes. That’s what they all taught me, and I hated it, but I believed.

But then He won.

And I was glad.

You lost.

And I was glad.

And I’m glad about it every time I stick my cock in you, your arse, your mouth, and someday I’m going to have to make another hole, someday nothing of yours will satisfy me. You filthy bitch, you take it, you want it, talking back to me (you used to talk back to me) like nothing had changed, like you were still winning and I was still losing.

But you lost.

And nothing is sweeter than your blood coating me, dripping hot and wet, your blood in my mouth. Your pain.

Because you _lost_. Fucking Boy Who Lived Gryffindor hero you _lost_.

And here we are.

And you deserve everything you get.

XXX

She spat at me.

Once upon a time, Hermione Granger slapped me. Back in that other world where you lot were the winners and we were the losers, us slinking through filth and not the other way around.

But it was that same moment all over again; not tall and proud with a wand in her hand but cringing dirty on the floor she still _believed_ she was better than me. Like all the rape and all the torture and all the humiliation had only taught her how base we were, how petty, how mad.

So I killed her.

XXX

You used to fight.

You used to give in so we knew you were giving in, and we always saw through the pleading, saw what was and wasn’t sincere.

You used to be so good at playing the game, so we took away the game. Just pain, just suffering, pushing harder and harder to see how far we could make you sink into yourself, see where and how you’d crack.

I don’t remember exactly when you stopped fighting. You broke, but you never gave up; you never stopped; you’re still _here_. And now we have to split you open, wider and wider, trying to find whatever tender spots remain, trying to find what will still hurt.

And nothing cuts as deeply as when we cut your friends, does it? We can't even hurt you by yourself. Still protecting them, Potter, still caring for them, because they care for you.

People care for you.

Did you like it when Hagrid raped you? You should have been proud to lick your gore from his cock. ‘Agrid loves ‘is ‘Arry. But you could only shake and shudder from _betrayal_.

Of course I defiled you.

I’m your _enemy_.

I _live_ for it.

XXX

I wouldn’t have guessed, even if I had imagined His victory, that they would use the school this way. I wouldn’t have thought my father would want to be chained here. But he relishes what the Dark Lord gave him; what else can he do? And Father has always hated Hogwarts. He relishes the chance to inflict discipline on it, inflict revenge.

What else can he feel?

I am his officer. I take my own liberties.

What else can I feel?

And mother’s eyes soft and glittery like opals, saying, “Bide your time.” When no one can admit to being anything but content here. “You’ll get your chance.” Just as she’s been patient for years, waiting for what, I don’t know.

And her mad sister, Bellatrix, with her heavy dark eyes, her laughter, the stuff of my childhood nightmares, her mocking portrait the reason I always avoided Mother’s room… The Dark Lord sometimes visits us from the wider world, the world under His dominion, and then I’m thankful to be where my father rules… They're _here_. Why are they here? Even _Snape_ , much as he tries to hide it...

It’s _you_ , Potter. You’re the reason for all of this. Everyone holds their breath for each gasp and tremor of your pain.

It should be _mine_.

Potter, your pain is _mine_. I _earned_ every cry, every groan, every whimper. I didn’t _ask_ you to live, to be in my year. I didn’t _ask_ you to be who you are; I didn’t _want_ to be who I am.

But I played my part, and you just _did_ yours like the blind fool you are, prodded this way and that by Dumbledore, a piece on a chessboard.

The others just find you amusing, or a threat.

I _despise_ you, Potter.

You could have won.

It’s _my_ revenge I want. Snape will fucking… like you, love you… like one of those fools you call your friends. The surviving ones.

I want you to suffer, Potter.

I want you to suffer.

A Malfoy always gets what he wants.

XXX

Draco Malfoy once watched his parents and their friends play with a family of Muggles, suspend them in the air amidst terror and panic. He leaned against a tree and watched, his mind as blank as slate. He watched as they displayed their power, their cruelty.

He watched as they displayed their desperation.

Granger, the mudblood, stumbled in, and knew her pollution to be a beacon to their hungry eyes; they would find it, follow it, stamp it out. So he warned her away from the fray, shaping his words into the insults her _protectors_ would understand.

Because they were the heroes; he was the villain; and it was the only way to save them.

Not that he wanted to _save_ them; but he didn’t want _that_ , that war, that… too-real horror… for them. For him. He remembered his own nightmares, and he knew he didn’t want that.

So he warned them, and they never thanked him.

And a year and a half later, they lost anyway.

XXX

The rain and the blood and the pain blend into a sea of purple. The whole world is one heavy, pulsing bruise, and Draco cannot wait for it to end. “D E” emblazoned on his robe marks him more severely than the faded tattoo on his arm. He wouldn’t have guessed that.

The world is red and his cock is broken, his limbs are broken, his head is broken.

Draco Malfoy is dying.

They’ve chained him and they’ve raped him, and it is such a novel sensation, three weeks since the final defeat, still such a shock to be on the receiving end, and he almost wants to hold onto it, the memory of those tears, those cries, those bruises, but the beatings have long since overwhelmed his mind; he can’t tell the pain in his arse from the pain anywhere else in his body. Their rage is violent and immediate, too strong for words, too strong for humiliation; they want to kill.

Draco knows what that feels like.

They beat him and beat him and beat him, and it’s like their anger is his own, but for the first time it just flows through him, hot and wet and splattering into the gutter.

Draco feels the rain on his face.

The world is swollen and throbbing.

It had been frightening, winning. It had been terrifying to see the Dark Lord win.

Draco made them pay for losing.

Now he has lost; now he can pay.

The world is drowning.

Surrender is cold, and darkness, and blood, and pain, and rain.

XXX


End file.
